


Raise a Wreck

by LastAmericanMermaid



Category: Black Sails
Genre: "other stuff", Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Bisexual Character, First Time, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Rough Kissing, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Silver's past!, Slow Burn, ahem, author has created some background for characters, character study(ish), eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-19 14:08:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5969848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LastAmericanMermaid/pseuds/LastAmericanMermaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When circling each other and glaring is no longer enough.</p><p>(My first work in this fandom! Taking a break from Stucky for a bit.) </p><p>(Wordy angst-fest that picks up during XXI of Black Sails s.3)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

Flint was not a sentimental man.

But being hard was not the same as being unfeeling, and eventually things would—now and again—become too much to bear.

Now, Flint was alone.

The last tenuous threads holding some part of him still to James McGraw had been cut the second the bullet had ripped into Miranda’s head.

The apparition of her face over the crewman he’d shot came rushing back.

He wept quietly behind a locked door, choking off any sound before it might be made audible, something within him utterly broken.

He’d thought that a monster was what he wanted to be; the unsettling feeling that he had become just that was bitterer on his tongue than Flint liked.

And then there was the problem of Silver.

.

John Silver had been a problem from the moment he’d burned that page in the fire.

At first, he was no more than a thorn in Flint’s side, a nuisance to be dealt with by swatting, like a fly.

Things progressed, though, and somehow Flint found himself with an intellectual equal stepping on his heels. Crowding him.

Every thought he had, Silver seemed to pick up on. This was in part, Flint knew, because Silver was quiet and good at making himself seem so inconsequential that people counted him out at the onset. Silver knew body language, knew human nature. He listened rather than speaking most of the time, but when he did speak…

To count John Silver out would be a mistake, was all.

_“There is always a way out.”_

He was clever, too clever for his own good. The way he had turned the situation to be in their favor when they took the Spanish warship was terrifying if Flint thought about it too hard.

Either that had been Silver’s plan all along—a wholly disturbing notion—or he had come up with it off the cuff, which was equal parts impressive and unnerving.

He’d cut the forestay and delayed Vane’s crew, buying time so he could somehow use his powers of persuasion to convince Vane that Flint’s rescue was imperative.

Then there was the business with the Urca gold. The lie. Silver had lied to—to what? Save his own skin, most likely. But the gold had been his only motive, hadn’t it? What had changed in such a short span of time to make him value being a part of Flint’s crew so much?

Flint thought, with a curl of something like unease in his stomach, that he knew what had changed.

It wouldn’t do to dwell on furtive glances and lingering looks.

Instead, Flint considered the huge personal sacrifice Silver had made. He’d put himself in-between the crew and Vane’s men. He’d paid dearly for that.

The months that followed the events in Charleston had seen Silver stubbornly ignore the advice of Mr. Howell, learn to maneuver on his crutch, and then with just one hand hovering above whatever solid thing might be in reach.

Flint noted with passive interest over that span of time as Silver’s entire being had seemed to change. The weight of what had happened to him was like a heavy cloak over the man’s shoulders.

Frustrated, starving, sweating; Flint shifted his thoughts over to more practical matters. Like how he knew Billy had stayed behind to speak privately with Silver after the three of them had shared words earlier.

Billy and Silver were the closest Flint had to allies now, stuck in the doldrums with severely depleted rations and two of his men dead by his own hand, and he knew they spoke about him in hushed voices when he was not nearby.

 

Flint’s grip on reality was slipping, like weak fingers on wet wood. He felt adrift in a strange place now, nothing tethering him, no one grounding him.

He laid his head against the wall and closed his eyes.

 

.

 

Silver was at his wit’s end, glaring hard at the back of Flint’s head as they rowed towards the bloated, likely-rotted whale.

The sky was cloudless, bright and beautiful, and the sea stretched out endlessly around them, clear as crystal. It was like being trapped in a painting of paradise—nice in theory, but in reality just another form of gilded cage.

Silver would have laughed bitterly, if he’d had the energy; the first time he’d seen the islands and the seas here, the very opposite of England’s murky water and gray skies. As unlike London’s stink and bustle as a place could possibly be. He’d thought it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, the bright sun and warm winds and white sand.

Now, Silver thought frantically, he’d give his other leg to be in some modest stone house in Bristol with a wife he tolerated and access to fresh water and food.

And as he rowed, his resentment toward Flint felt like hot, bubbling oil inside him. He wondered if it were at all possible to burn a hole into the back of someone’s head just by staring with intent.

Flint had turned all of their lives into instruments for his purpose, some revenge-based madness that, if it had once held definitive shape, clearly had lost any sense of form now, and it made Silver want to shout until his lungs rasped. They were all expendable, clearly, as evidenced by the two men who’d been dumped overboard with gunshot in their heads.

The heat, the hunger, the frustration all crowded Silver’s mind until he couldn’t hold it in any longer. He licked his lips and tasted old blood, felt the cracked and peeling flesh under his tongue and resisted the urge to worry it with his teeth.

And then it all came spilling out, the story of what really happened to the Urca gold. They both dropped oars, but Flint did not turn to face Silver as he spoke.

“You know, I’ve had my fill of hearing you go on about this crew being too weak to keep up with you.” he said, tightening his grip on the anchor and gritting his teeth. “Some of them may be weaker than you, some of them may be less smart,” he continued, heart hammering in his chest “but don’t you for a second believe that I fit that description.”

And there it was, that shadowy truth that had been swirling unspoken in the silences between them for months now. Silver felt lightheaded with the release.

“Whatever happens out here, one thing is certain.” he steeled himself for the blow, the retaliation. “You _will_ account for me.”

The silence that followed stretched on impossibly long, tension tight and palpable.

...But nothing happened, and Flint picked up his oars and began again to row, so Silver did the same, trying to will his hands not to shake with the adrenaline.

 

Of course, as soon as they were within spitting distance, Silver could smell the rancid stink of the dead whale. Contaminated for certain. Not in any way edible.

But desperation does strange things to people, and Silver recalled suddenly something he’d seen a native fisherman off the coast of one of the smaller islands do.

The man had used the blunt end of his spear to pound the bottom of his boat, to call the attention of large predators lurking near by.

Silver picked up the harpoon and began doing just that, ignoring the look of intermingled disdain and questioning on the captain’s face.

It didn’t take long before something pounded back, rocking their little boat and making both men jump slightly, startled. They peered over the side of the boat, and Silver felt hope well up in his chest again.

Sharks circled them, huge and dangerous, moving in languid military formations.

“We can eat those,” Silver rasped to Flint, eyes wild, and understanding had the captain reaching for the harpoon still in Silver’s hand.

And then, instinct and desperation took over, had both men scrambling to act.

Flint harpooned one on his second attempt, but the shark swam away, pulling the line with it, and Silver saw their last chance disappearing before his eyes.

He couldn’t let that happen.

Too much was at stake now, not just his own survival. There were men who depended on him, counted on him to be on their side. And more besides; Silver had something to prove.

He grabbed the fast-unfurling line and staggered to the bow and hurried to loop the rope twice around the protruding stem. His hands burned from the friction where the rope had slipped, but Silver hung on and braced his knees against the thwart, gritting his teeth and willing the bloody beast to slow down.

It seemed to go on forever, but finally, the creature stopped for long enough that Silver and Flint could pull it up, thrashing and struggling, over the side of the boat for Flint to stab between the eyes.

When the shark had lain still, both men breathing heavily, foreheads beaded with sweat, Silver chanced a glance at the captain.

Flint did something utterly unexpected then; he smiled and said in a ragged voice, “Again?”

It changed his whole face, smiling. He looked so glad, so free of burden in that moment, that Silver could do nothing more than bark out a breathless laugh, and smile tentatively back.

.

  
_“You will account for me.”_

The words echoed in Flint’s head long after they’d made their way back to the ship, rowboat laden with the weight of the shark they’d killed.

He couldn’t see the other man’s face when he spoke, but Flint imagined it well enough. The crease between his brows, the curl of his chapped and splitting lips. And of course, his eyes. Sunken and shadowed as they were of late, Silver’s eyes were still arresting.

It was thoughts like that one, exactly, that Flint could not afford to have.

It was a betrayal to Thomas, to Miranda.

Silver was…dangerous. Flint had to finally admit it. The other man was constantly surprising, and that in and of itself was a risk. Flint hadn’t known anyone whose next steps he could not predict in a very long time.

 

A knock on the door to his quarters would have jarred him from his thoughts, had it not been preceded by the heavy, telltale thud of Silver’s false leg on the deck.

“Enter,” he pushed himself up out of the window seat and stood, uncomfortable with the idea of being in such a vulnerable position with his quartermaster.

“The men are in good spirits, captain.” Silver said as he crossed the threshold, his voice so even that it almost disguised what this was: a peace offering. Clearly, he still wondered where they stood, after his confession in the rowboat.

Pacing across to the far window, Flint nodded. It didn’t escape his notice that Silver was still shirtless, and Flint bit back the curse rising on his tongue.

“We’ll make that island in two days, with the winds favorable as they are.” he replied instead, and was suddenly hit by a wave of exhaustion. His whole body felt leaden, utterly wrung out.

Drawing a breath, Silver moved across the space with purpose. “I wanted to—”

“—before I was the most feared pirate in these waters, do you know what I was?” Flint cut off whatever it was Silver had been about to say, suddenly too tired to keep things inside him that he ought.

The other man frowned, clearly puzzled as to what was happening.

“You were a military man, that much is clear,” Silver answered cautiously.

Flint’s surprise must have showed on his face, because Silver added, “It’s in your movements. The way you approach prizes, your strategies. Plus, nobody walks like that unless they were taught to.”

He should have known better than to be impressed that Silver had worked that out, but as it was, the comment struck him nonetheless.

“I was in the Royal Navy,” Flint moved to sit at his desk, suddenly fed up with standing. Silver heaved himself unceremoniously into the chair across from him.

“That’s how you knew Peter Ashe,” Silver spoke with a light in his eyes, the spark in his expression when he’d figured something out without needing to be told. Just as quickly, that openness shuttered back to wary mistrust. “Why are you telling me this?”

Flint scrubbed a hand over his face. He wondered what the quartermaster would do if he said he could give no reason as to why.

“Because…” he settled on finally. “Because the only person left who knew me—who knew _why_ —is dead.”

Miranda’s words echoed in his mind. No man is an island, James.

Silver, to his credit, said nothing. He merely nodded, curiosity and wariness at subtle war on his face.

Flint tried not to let his eyes linger on the sweat-sheen of Silver’s shoulders in the lamplight. The younger man’s body was still largely unmarred by any scars or wounds, and Flint wondered blandly how someone as maddening as Silver had managed to steer clear of any punishment involving lashing.

But the idea of Silver baring his back in anticipation of the crack of a switch or cat was even more distracting, and so Flint spoke to clear his mind of the subject altogether.

“When I was made lieutenant, I was assigned to be liaison to a man who wanted to colonize and legitimize Nassau. Lord Hamilton. The whole affair got wildly out of hand.”

Closing his eyes, Flint breathed hard out his nose before speaking again. His fingers gripped the edge of the desk to the end that his knuckles went white.

“It ended with Thomas Hamilton dying in Bedlam and his wife Miranda and I disgraced out of England. Peter Ashe helped us escape. He also, as it turns out, was the one who made the betrayal possible.”

He’d left out so much, and yet the expression on Silver’s face was all too knowing.

“T.H.—Thomas Hamilton?” the younger man asked suddenly, though he looked immediately as though he wished he’d said nothing.

“Excuse me?” Flint fixed him with a glare—ready, as always, to be angry.

“There’s a book on your shelves,” Silver explained, raising his hands and speaking hurriedly. “I pulled it while I was recovering…” he trailed off and looked sourly down at the leg he’d lost. “The inscription in it is signed with those initials.”

Flint wanted to throw something at the wall.

Of course the one person in his ship smart enough to actually want to read a book would happen to pull that book. Of course he would put it together.

Flint hated the way he always felt grudging in his surprise and respect when he learned of Silver’s abilities. Shark-calling _and_ Spanish, added to the ever-growing list.

“And?” Flint forced himself to sound impassive, his face not to betray any emotion.

“And,” Silver began slowly, measuring his words, “I believe that I am beginning to understand why your goals are as they are.”

Flint couldn’t resist snorting at the careful phrasing.

“No witty remark about my preferences? I’m disappointed,” he smirked.

Silver, who normally made and held eye contact, dropped his gaze and looked away. His shoulders shrugged and hunched. After a moment had passed, he met Flint’s eyes again, nose scrunching slightly in disbelief.

“Why the fuck would I mock you? I’m a cynical bastard, but I assure you, I’m not cruel. Nor am I so stupid.” he said, more softly than either of them were expecting. “And besides, I—”

A shout was heard from somewhere on the quarterdeck, and the spell holding them both in the moment seemed to break.

“I should get back to the men.” Silver rose, pushing his weight up using the arms of the chair as support.

“Go, then.” Flint waved a hand, raising his eyebrows when the younger man hesitated at the door.

Silver opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it quickly, frowning slightly. His eyes flicked across Flint once more before he let himself out of the room.

 

Sighing in frustration, Flint staggered over to the bed in the window seat and kicked off his boots. Annoyance and exhaustion were battling for dominance, though bone-tiredness was currently in the lead.

 

Before…before everything, really, Flint had toyed with the fantasy of fucking Silver.

It was impossible not to have noticed how physically attractive the man was; lithe and golden with a smooth jaw and eyes like—suffice it to say, Silver had caught Flint’s eye even while irritating him so fiercely.

There was a tilt to Silver’s maddening smirk and a sway in his hips when he walked that told Flint the younger man was likely no stranger to unconventional couplings; still, it was too much of a risk, propositioning someone so prone to dishonesty.

And yet…it was something he came back to more than a few times, especially after they’d taken the Spanish warship together. It’d been so long since anyone had shown that kind of cleverness, let alone someone as pleasing to the eye. Flint imagined bending Silver over his desk, fucking all the smart-mouthed comments and all the smugness right out of him.

But then Charleston had happened.

Nothing was the same, nothing was simple anymore, least of all his complicated feelings for the man he now called his quartermaster.  
Silver had lost a leg for the crew, for Flint.

He had decided in that likely heart-pounding moment that he would perhaps rather be an honorable man, and he’d immediately paid the price.

In addition to half a limb, Silver had lost something else. A bit of spark, perhaps. Some of his shine. He had discovered firsthand that the game of life had higher stakes than he’d prepared for. Flint found he could no longer entertain crude fantasies about the man; to his horror, they felt empty. He found himself wanting to lay a comforting hand on Silver’s shoulder instead. To hold him.

Frustrated, Flint turned over in his bed.

Just today, Silver had challenged him in that boat, burning with the desire to be recognized by Flint, to not be counted amongst the rest.

He’d outwitted Flint.

Then, he’d told Flint just how he’d done it.

If not for the fact that Silver’s voice held no lie when he spoke of what became of his share of the Urca gold, Flint might have killed him there out on the open water.

But he’d decided, in that moment, to let it go. He was reluctantly, grudgingly impressed.

And, if he was very honest, Flint was a little, well, _flattered_. Which only served to annoy him, really.

Now, he’d given Silver the ultimate test. He’d shared the barest glimpse behind the veil into his past, his other life so long left behind.

If Silver was to be trusted, he would act as though he’d not heard a word of it. He’d not speak any of it to a soul.

He felt the loss of Miranda like an ache rise up sharp again behind his ribs, and he wished she were there for the thousandth time that day. She would have known what to say, and how to say it. She'd have listened and chosen her words thoughtfully before speaking. 

Before he drifted into fitful sleep, Flint thought fleetingly of the way Silver’s muscles had flexed and gleamed with sweat under the unforgiving sun when he’d held the line to pull in that shark.

He found that he still wanted.

.

Silver lie in his own hammock, shirt cast off to the side, mulling over everything that had happened.

Every time he thought he was beginning to see a way to gain the upper hand, Flint went and changed the terms, changed the rules, changed the whole bloody game.

What purpose did it serve, telling him about the affair with Thomas Hamilton?

Silver ignored the ache in what remained of his left leg, tried to focus instead upon the relief of having the boot off for the night.

His own words to Billy came floating up from the depths of his subconscious, surfacing with a splash impossible to ignore.

_“He had me there, too. And that is not supposed to happen.”_

When had it all become so damned confusing? Silver wondered, frowning up at the dirty shipboards above him. When exactly had he decided that being indispensable to Captain Flint was more important than taking a fortune’s worth of gold and fucking off into the sunset?

He hadn’t lied, though, when he’d told Flint that all he was without the crew was an invalid. He’d merely only given half of the truth.

The other half was too terrifying to consider.

The other half being, obviously, that Silver too had fallen into the trap of wanting to unravel the mystery of the brooding, tortured man who held all their fates in his hands.

Silver had never before been consistently breathless with the efforts of trying to keep up with one man’s wit. It was maddening.

Used to being the cleverest in any given room, Silver resented the captain’s intellect at first. Then, he’d seen it as a challenge, a hurdle to climb.

Somewhere in-between their first meeting and now, Silver had begun to imagine the way Flint’s callused, scarred hands would feel on his bare flesh. He had watched the span of the captain’s broad shoulders and the hard lines of his face, and he had begun to want.

He’d never been hard up for company, before all this. John Silver wasn’t picky as to whom it was shared his bed, as long as they were nice to look at and knew how to use their body.

At the very beginning, his eyes had lingered on Billy - how could they not? The man looked carved out of marble - but quickly they had drifted to Flint.

It had added a deliciously interesting shade to their partnership of necessity, the fantasies he’d had about Flint, but somewhere down the line the fantasies had become genuine desire, and coupled with that desire was the burning need to know Flint.

For a short while, after Charleston and Vane’s crew and all that bloody, awful business, Silver had forgotten that part of himself.

Now, it seemed, his body had decided that sufficient time had passed and the unwelcome physical yearning sparked low in his belly.

 

Silver huffed and struggled to find a comfortable position. He tried not to remember the way Flint’s genuine smile earlier had made him feel. Like he had been given a rare glimpse at the real man. Like he mattered. 

Silver knew he could not afford to feel that way. He knew better than that; that was why he had survived so long. 


	2. Chapter 2

Two days later, they made for the abandoned port of an island that had failed to be colonized.

The fearsomely adorned Natives on the island were wary of the crew, and Flint couldn’t find it in himself to blame them.

It took some time, but through the joint efforts of himself, Silver, and Billy, Flint was able to convince the people of the island that they meant no harm.

The general gist of the agreement they - Flint hoped - had reached, was that he and his crew were to keep to only one area of the island, and they were not to attempt to make off with any goods or tribespeople.

They set up camp on the beach, then, organized groups of men to set about mooring the ship, forage for food and fresh water, and rest in shifts. 

The island had plenty to offer by way of fruit and game, and Flint felt a little of the tension go out of him when he stood on a high sand dune and watched his men go about their tasks enthusiastically.

There was much ahead, between getting safely to Nassau and dealing with the small matter of Hornigold and the British, but Flint couldn’t bring himself to think about those things in that moment.

He had survived the storm, survived being becalmed.

 

He wondered how much he could weather before all of him was worn away, carried off in the surf.

 

.

 

“I don’t know how you do it,” Billy sat down in the sand next to Silver, stretching his impossibly long legs out with a groan.

“Do what?” Silver snorted, staring out at the horizon. The sun looked to be melting into the water, bleeding out in reds and oranges.

“Always manage to end up ahead,” Billy replied, leaning back to rest his weight on his hands.

Silver thought of a million ways to respond, but found himself opting for honesty. It startled him not a little.

“I’ve always had nothing to lose. Well,” he gestured wryly at his left leg “I _thought_ I had nothing to lose. I suppose now all I can say is I’m lucky.”

Billy gave Silver a truly withering look at that, then shook his head.

“Well whatever it is you’re doing with the captain, keep at it. We may all actually come out of this ahead, too.”

The words weren’t intended to rankle, but Silver found himself bristling slightly anyhow.

“I’m not doing anything with the captain. I’m trying to stay on his good side, same as everyone.”

He was surprised to hear how bitter he sounded, but when he looked at Billy, the bosun seemed unfazed.

“You’re wrong,” he said with a shrug of one massive shoulder “despite what he may say, Flint depends on you now. He looks to you for advice, for support in his decisions. You’re the closest he’s got to a friend among the whole crew, and that is no small thing.”

Silver said nothing, just hummed thoughtfully, turning again to stare at the setting sun, which had by now almost sunken completely out of view.

“Everyone he invites into his confidence ends up dead,” Silver said quietly after several moments had passed.

“True, there is that unfortunate pattern,” Billy agreed, and Silver found his affection for the bosun grow.

Honest men were hard to come by, and amongst sailors they were even scarcer. Silver was pleased in spite of himself that Billy would give it to him straight rather than offer untruths in the form of platitude.

“Would you round up the men? We ought to be getting everyone to camp for the night,” Silver reached down with a groan to rub at the painful spot where the boot chafed against his stump.

“Of course. Any idea where Flint is?”

Silver sighed, feeling his shoulders tense at the mention of the unreadable captain.

“He’s in his cabin. Resting, or so he says.” Silver made a face to show just what he thought of that. “I worry, though; a man of his mind and drives left alone for too long is dangerous.”

“I see what you mean,” said Billy thoughtfully. He stood, and offered Silver a hand to pull himself up as well. “Perhaps you ought to make sure he isn’t plotting some new madness.”

Silver felt his mood further sour. He should check on Flint for that very reason, but being alone with the man on an otherwise empty ship was an unsettling thought.

Still, he made his way—slowly still, and with effort; the boot’s peg wasn’t made for walking on sand—to where the ship was docked and lumbered up the still-lowered gangplank onto the deck.

.

The knock at the door to Flint’s quarters came after the telltale thumps of Silver’s boot, and Flint could not help the strange feeling that filled his chest.

He’d just been thinking of Silver, having a difficult time talking himself out of making a very foolish decision. He’d even gone so far as to pour himself a finger or two of the rum he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk.

The rum did not help; if anything, it only served to bolster the lust flaring up in him. The reasons he had previously in place to deter any wayward desires to lead him astray seemed flimsy now, like excuses at best.

And when he’d seen Silver giving orders and taking questions and hearing complaints on the beach that morning, he found he could no longer suppress his own humanity with excuses and reason.

It had been a long time since he’d even considered such things as he now did, but Flint supposed that was the catalyst. It was the same principle as with the shark.

A starving man, when faced with the choice between eating food and merely staring at it, would always choose the former.

 

As if summoned by thought alone, the door swung back on its hinges and Silver stomped in, apparently no longer feeling the need to wait for permission.

“Captain, the men would like for me to ask you when we were going—”

“Fuck the men, what they want,” Flint interrupted, watching intently for Silver’s many micro-expressions. “I have other things on my mind right now.”

The door closed with an audible click and scrape, and the cabin felt hot, the air stifling.

“What manner of things?” Silver asked, eyeing Flint warily before taking several steps further into the room.

This was the moment in which Flint could choose to go forward, or fabricate something else and leave the matter of his want for another time. Perhaps the desire would fade over time, if ignored.

But Flint was still a starved man, regardless of his full stomach. He gestured for Silver to sit, waiting until the quartermaster was fully in the chair before administering the first blow.

“Well, maybe you’d like to discuss the small fact that you watch me.” he said, allowing a small smirk to curl at the corners of his mouth.

“What do you—I—” Silver’s eyes darted away again, his posture at once taking a nervous sort of rigidity, as if preparing to flee.

“I confess, at first I thought nothing of it. You are wary of me and I of you; it is natural to want to keep eyes on someone you do not trust.” Flint continued in a practical sort of tone, as if they discussed something as trivial as the currently mild weather.

“But then I saw it, just a glimpse. I have seen what it is you hide so well, but,” Flint drummed his fingertips on the desk’s wooden surface, “just know that you cannot hide it from me.”

Silver’s eyes were round and panicked, but they flicked over Flint’s person with something else in them as well. Want. Silver unconsciously licked his lips, knuckles white where he gripped the chair’s arms.

Flint smirked again. So, his hunch was correct, then. That strangeness in Silver’s face when he watched Flint from across the deck was interest. Longing.

“I don’t know what it is you could possibly wish for me to say,” Silver closed his eyes like a man awaiting a blow.

Flint felt a heat coiling in his belly that—for once—had nothing to do with rage. He stood and made his way round the front of the desk to lean against its edge.

“Perhaps I merely wish to know whether you planned to act, or if you’re content with looking for its own sake.”

Silver’s eyes opened, and he moved back in his chair like he’d received a shock.

How much he’d changed since they first became acquainted, Flint thought.

Now, his hair was long enough to need tying back. The shadows around his eyes made him look haunted. He walked like he carried a burden, rather than slinking around with his easy grin as he’d done before. He stopped shaving, perhaps out of disaffectedness, perhaps in an attempt to make himself stand out from the crew less.

“What is it you’re doing, exactly?” Silver’s voice wavered only slightly. He glared up at Flint, that same bolt of angry blue as when he’d threatened to challenge him. “I can’t help but feel as though this is some sort of trap.”

Sighing, Flint pushed up off of the desk and came to stand as near to Silver as was possible without being directly in the space between the man’s legs.

“I see your capacity to pick up on subtleties has diminished of late,” Flint said, keeping his voice low as he addressed Silver. “I can be more blunt, if you prefer.”

The blood pounded in his ears, but there was no turning back.

Possibly, the younger man would mumble an excuse and leave as quickly as his injury would allow. He might get angry at being propositioned, though Flint doubted it. And still another reaction could be—

Just as Flint was weighing possible outcomes, Silver surged up out of the chair so the two of them were standing nearly chest to chest.

“If you’re serious,” Silver began, eyes sharp in contrast with his slightly breathless voice, “all I would ask is why?”

“Why?”

“Why me? Why—why now?” Silver furrowed his brow prettily, and when the fuck did Flint start thinking of any part of John Silver as pretty?

“Because you want me,” Flint said with certainty, closing the space between them with an arm firmly around Silver’s waist.

“Fuck you.” Silver shot back, eyes flicking down to Flint’s mouth.

“Because I want you,” Flint rasped, and his shoulders dropped slightly with the relief that admission carried with it.

No sooner had the words left his mouth, Flint found himself being kissed roughly, a hand on either side of his face as though he needed keeping still.

  
Silver kissed with teeth, and Flint found that he liked it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope anyone reading is enjoying this. 
> 
> As I said in the summary, this is my first fic for this pairing/fandom, so I had to do a lot of practice attempts and research before I felt comfortable starting this. I'm hoping it won't be longer than 5 chapters, but sometimes things run away with me. Also, I wanted to contribute to the very small but lovely cluster of works in this pairing. Hopefully the numbers will increase!
> 
> Let me know how you're liking it! <3


	3. Chapter 3

For all the ways Silver had imagined anything like this happening between himself and Flint, he could not have predicted the way it actually unfolded.

He’d gone blood-hard the moment Flint had curled his lip and asked Silver whether or not he was content to look without touching. And the thing was, he had thought exactly that, up until a few moments ago; now Silver thought he probably hadn’t ever stood much of a chance in the face of the captain’s will.

But the time for thinking was over, because he was quickly losing himself in the scrape of beard and the sting of teeth. Both men seemed to want the upper hand, gripping hard and grinding clothed erections through their trousers.

Silver’s breath hitched when Flint’s hands found their way up and under the back of his shirt, and when Flint moved down to press his mouth to Silver’s throat, Silver couldn’t bite back on the needy sound that escaped him.

“Is this how you pictured it?” Flint chuckled, voice gruff with desire. “Look at you, you’re desperate for it, aren’t you?”

Annoyed even in the haze of urgent lust, Silver opened his eyes just enough to glare.

“Fuck you,” he spat “you make me sound like some virgin, pining away after your cock.” he growled, shoving a hand down into Flint’s trousers to take hold of the appendage in question.

Flint looked smug again, and opened his mouth to speak, but his eyes shuttered and his face went slack when Silver squeezed and gave a few languid tugs.

A ways off, the sounds of the men drinking and carousing on the beach floated in the open cabin window. Dazedly, Silver wondered if Billy might have suspected this would happen when he’d urged him to go and see Flint.

Returning his attentions to the stiffened cock in his hand, Silver released his grip so he could spit into his palm before reaching back down to grasp it again. He brushed one wet thumb across the head, feeling a rush of something like pride when Flint gasped and thrust his hips to reach the slick heat of Silver’s fist.

“Now who’s desperate?” he grinned, panting into the captain’s ear, twisting his wrist a little on the next stroke.

Not two seconds later, Silver found himself being backed up against the desk and made to sit, his legs nudged apart by Flint’s knee. It was difficult to figure out what to do with his legs now that there was a heavy contraption of wood and metal in the place of one of them, but Silver held his tongue and kept his feet planted on the floor.

“If it pains you so, you should take the damn thing off,” Flint growled between haphazard kisses, hand sliding down to rest on the place where the boot began.

Silver didn’t want to think about it. The wound had healed closed well enough, but the scar was still fresh, ugly and raw. Suddenly, he was overcome by a rush of hatred for the stump that remained. If he were whole, they’d be fucking already. It was just one more way in which Silver no longer measured up.

“Amputees give you the proper horn, then?” Silver asked before he could think better of it, unable to check the bitterness in his voice.

Flint pulled back, brow furrowed and mouth turned down in a frown.

“Is that what you think this is?” he asked, his expression hard.

“Well, it’s either that, or you pity me,” Silver half-hissed, disentangling himself from the captain’s embrace “and truthfully? Of the two, I’d rather be made an object of fetish than one of some misguided attempt at mercy.”

Flint scrubbed a hand over his face, silence stretching long between them as the ship rocked gently.

“I don’t give a damn about your leg, John.” Flint said finally, and when Silver hazarded a glance he saw only honesty in Flint’s face. “I wanted you before, and that has not changed.”

“But I don’t understand what that _means_ , your wanting!” Silver smacked his palm hard against the desk’s surface, the noise ringing out louder than he’d intended.

Flint stared hard back at him for a long moment, still frowning. Then, without warning he closed the distance between their bodies once more, this time pulling Silver into a real embrace.

Silver’s first instinct was to fight it, to question it, but Flint held fast and soon Silver relented with a shiver and shaky exhale.

Being touch-starved is a strange thing; often those suffering from the affliction are wholly unaware. They don’t realize how very much they crave contact until it is finally given. Then, it becomes like a ravenous hunger.

Silver wondered, breathing in the sweat and brine of Flint’s neck, how long it had been since someone had touched either of them with tenderness.

He had the distinct, hollow feeling that accompanied most occasions where his normally infallible memory was utterly, unapologetically blank.

“I am sorry that you suffered because of me,” Flint’s voice was low and rough in Silver’s ear “but I do not pity you. It is a disservice to call yourself invalid.”

Silver pulled back just enough to search the captain’s expression. He found it to be devoid of anything but honesty. It was different than he’d expected; more open, with eyes unclouded.

“What would you call me, then?” he asked finally, curious in spite of himself and his lingering bitterness.

Flint again did the surprising thing, half-smiling. His eyes crinkled at the corners and made him look an entirely different man.

“Pirate,” he drawled, and leaned in slowly to capture Silver’s lips again, giving him the chance to pull away if he chose.

Silver didn’t want to pull away.

The kiss that followed was less frantic, for all that it was heated.

The warm feeling in Silver’s belly returned with a vengeance, and he reached down to dig a cruel thumb into the scar tissue over what remained of his left knee in a bid to make himself keep his wits.

“Just take the bloody thing off, you stubborn bastard,” Flint growled, “it makes no difference when you’re lying down anyhow.”

At that, Silver found himself - yet again - utterly at a loss for words. He let himself be guided over to the bed in the window-seat, dazedly watching as though it were happening to someone else. And indeed, the sight of Flint crouching down to his knees to undo the straps of the boot was so inconceivable a scene, Silver almost doubted his own eyes.

With a sharp yank, the boot was removed, and cool, welcome air rushed over the exposed flesh.

“It isn’t very pretty,” Silver muttered, unable to stop hating the sight of the angry pink flesh.

“What fuck do I give about pretty?” Flint replied gruffly. “I believe we’ve already established my preferences lie well outside the realm of ‘pretty.’”

Silver couldn’t think of a response to that.

“And besides,” Flint continued, rising so he could sit beside Silver on the cot’s edge, “some people like scars.”

Silver turned to snort disbelievingly.

“Why be so kind to me, if not out of pity?”

Flint stared flatly back at him, as though he thought Silver was being purposely dim.

“When was the last time you won someone’s favor by being rude or callous?”

Silver felt the back of his neck grow warm.

He’d always expected Flint to be as ruthless in matters of sex as he was in all other areas of his life. What’s more, Silver’s past encounters with men had only served to reenforce the idea that liaisons between two men were nothing at all like those between man and woman.

Women were treated well, cosseted and kissed, because they were soft and lovely and that’s just what you were meant to do. Men were hard and coarse and often careless with each other because, what reason had they to act otherwise? There was no pretense with men, no need to work up to the act itself.

The only men who treated their male partners well were the rich men who kept pubescent boys for pleasure, and Silver had always misliked and mistrusted those sorts of men.

Now, here he was next to the most terrifying man he had ever met, a man who was now telling Silver that he was prepared to treat him gently, like a lover.

“You are aware you can say no to me,” Flint said suddenly, worry creasing his face, voice pitched like a half-question.

Silver felt as though he’d been knocked windless. A hundred replies fought for dominance on his tongue, but words seemed to fail him yet again. Four months ago, there had been nothing he would not stake upon his ability with words.

A small part of Silver felt oddly bereft because, of course he couldn’t. He would never have been able to say no.

“I’ve had enough talking for one night, I think.” he said definitively, reaching for Flint, who came willingly.

They lay down on the bed, then, Flint covering Silver’s body with his own, and exchanged fevered kisses for a time.

Silver found, as they stripped off the necessary items of clothing, that Flint had been right. His missing limb didn’t matter when they were like this. He allowed himself a small smile at the thought before losing himself to the heat and friction completely.

Flint gripped his hips hard enough to bruise, and he seemed to like sinking his teeth into any flesh he could get at, but Silver knew that his aim was not to hurt. It felt a little - a lot - like being claimed.

 

As Flint reached for a spare bottle of lamp oil, Silver pushed his thoughts aside; everything else could wait, at least until morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yowza! 
> 
> I'm so happy to see that people are reading my li'l WIP! This chapter was kind of a doozy for me, mainly because I wanted to write in-character as much as possible, but the way the characters have developed as of the most recent episodes, I couldn't just have it be a sexy smut fest of rough goodness (much as I wanted it to.) 
> 
> I didn't want this to seem too mushy and lovey, because I realize that is not how either of these men operates. That said, I hope I did alright! 
> 
> <3 You're all so great for reading uwu


	4. Chapter 4

A week later, they made port at another small isle, an abandoned port that had failed to be colonized. Whichever country had tried to do so had introduced goats to the island, so there seemed to be an abundance of the creatures, according to the scouts they sent into the jungle.

Silver knew that Flint hated avoiding engagements with potential prizes, but the crew was still weakened from the events of the previous weeks, and the risk was enough that they were forced to give a promising sloop a very wide berth.

The men were restless, anxious to return to Nassau, and Silver had to admit to himself that he felt much the same.

If Hornigold had as many pardons for all of the _Walrus_ ’ crew, who was to say he hadn’t enough for any willing pirate on New Providence? The thought was unsettling, to say the least.

Part of Silver had thought for a few seconds about considering the pardons, but in his gut he knew it would not have sat well for long. The battle they’d all prepared for may likely have already taken place. Who knew what lay in wait for them upon returning to Nassau?

Silver’s insides felt twisted up at the thoughts warring in his mind; he needed to make sure that Flint considered every single possibility, and planned for them all.

“You spent the night in the captain’s cabin again,” Billy said nonchalantly, appearing seemingly out of thin air. He moved remarkably stealthily for a man of his size.

Silver willed his face blank, though he feared it was a half-second too late.

“What’s your point?” he asked, which made the bosun roll his eyes.

“Nobody gives a shit who you want to fuck, so long as it doesn’t effect them directly,” Billy said, raising his eyebrows.

“Who said I was fucking the captain?” Silver rounded on him, not quite angry yet.

It wouldn’t do to have the men gossiping about himself and Flint, especially not in that way. Even if it were true.

“You two seem to share one mind of late,” Billy replied with a shrug. “Plus, there’s the glaring fact that you both have become the other’s shadow.”

Silver closed his eyes at the truth of that remark. He found himself unconsciously moving into Flint’s space more often than not nowadays, since they’d begun…whatever it was they’d begun doing, and the reverse was just as true. He hadn’t thought they’d been particularly obvious about it, but Silver had to admit that it might look strange to him too if two people who’d been at odds for so long suddenly got on easily.

Then, when Flint had wanted a look around the dense - reportedly abandoned - forest, he’d taken Silver along with a few other men. The terrain had been difficult to manage with the peg leg, and Silver had fallen. Flint had helped him up without hesitation, letting Silver use his shoulder for balance the rest of the way.

“You know we can’t have gossip,” he said warningly to Billy, who nodded.

“So far it’s just the odd comment from whoever’s feeling like complaining about the tasks you’ve set for him, but if I hear anything else, I’ll be sure to quash it.”

Silver was about to get back to his rounds, when a nagging thought stopped him. He turned back to Billy, frowning.

“You haven’t mentioned how it is you came to know about all this,” Silver said, just barely managing to keep accusation from his voice.

“You’re joking,” the bosun said and smiled then, like his face had moved without permission. The effect it had on his face was nearly as shocking as how Flint’s face changed when he smiled. Then, catching Silver’s expression, Billy dropped the slightly-manic grin. “You’re not joking.”

“Decidedly not,” Silver replied tartly, fixing the other man with a glare.

“Well, I didn’t know for certain,” Billy at least had the good grace to look slightly apologetic. “I might’ve seen the potential for it, if you see my meaning.”

So Silver had been right; it had been Billy’s aim that night on the first island, to push him at Flint. He had to admire the simplicity of the plan, as well as Billy’s not having given away anything at all until this moment.

“You wanted this outcome,” Silver squinted up at Billy, who stared back down at him blithely. “Why?”

“Because,” Billy sighed with exasperation, “the two of you needed the outlet, if I’m being frank. Things go better for everyone when you an’ the captain are on the same side.”

Silver found he had nothing to say to that, which was just as well; Billy was already walking away.

 

.

 

The beach they made their camp on was seemingly deserted, and Flint felt no shortage of relief for having no dangerous indigenous peoples to contend with. He did, however, find himself scanning the rocky shoreline and white sand drifts until he spotted Silver, pouring water from a bucket over the end of his stump. There was a little freshwater stream, and the men were busying themselves collecting buckets of it and drinking it right there, crouched at the banks.

Flint took up a bucket and filled it, then another, not realizing his own intentions until he had crossed half the distance to where Silver sat. He felt a small tug of annoyance at his own self; his subconscious seemed to want an outlet for the human kindness he’d used to reserve only for Miranda, and for Thomas. Flint had no room for compassion, for tenderness - or so he’d thought. There was no place in this world of piracy and politics and warfare for such a weakness.

Still, he set the buckets down between himself and Silver, sitting down beside the quartermaster with a sigh.

“Does it hurt?” he nodded at the scarred stump.

Silver gave him a sour look that didn’t last long before softening around the eyes.

“Yes and no. Less so, with fresh water and air.” he replied, struggling from his angle to reach for one of the buckets Flint had brought.

“Let me,” Flint said, taking it from Silver’s hands easily.

Silence passed between them for a little, a light breeze rustling the fronds of the palms that dotted the beach. A little ways off, a few men were arguing over how best to kill a goat.

 "The men can tell something's changed between us," Silver said finally, with a reluctance in his words that told Flint how little he'd wanted to say them at all.

Flint snorted, methodically pouring the second bucket of water over Silver's exposed stump.

"So what if they have? Would you prefer we went back to how it was before?"

He hated how much he did not want that to be the case. He would, obviously, move on without complaint if that was Silver's wish. He only hoped that it was not.

After a long moment, he looked back at Silver, who was staring at him flatly, nostrils flaring slightly.

"Did I say that? What I meant was, what would you like me to do about it when they inevitably suggest that you favor me because we're fucking?"

Flint set the empty bucket aside and leaned back against the large rock behind them.

"Do whatever you like," he shrugged "they won't speak ill of you, though. You underestimate how loyal they have become to their quartermaster."

Silver looked as though he hadn't considered that, his brow furrowed in thought.

"It's one thing for them to think or even to know that we're fucking. It is quite another for them to see you helping me manage difficult terrain with my leg. Or," he added "sitting here beside me while I air out the bloody thing."

Flint had, in truth, not spared a passing thought to how it may have looked back in the jungle, holding Silver up so he would not lose his footing. He couldn't find it within himself to care in retrospect, either.

"And you supposed that today would be the day I would just happen to start giving a fuck what any of those men think of me? Of you?" he scoffed, raising an eyebrow at the man beside him.

Silver sighed, closing his eyes for a moment as if exasperated. When he opened them, the high afternoon sun caught just so against the blue, lighting them to be brighter than the sea several yards away.

It was moments like these that made Flint feel as though he were not wholly in command of himself; Silver in certain light was - there was no getting round it - quite striking. Something in Flint's chest felt tight in these moments, as if his heart was squeezing and stuttering.

Beauty often tended to reveal itself in the unlikeliest of places, and Flint supposed finding it amidst the unwashed masses of Nassau was no less feasible than finding a flower blooming in dump heap.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Silver asked, expression suddenly wary.

Flint shook his head, kept the smile off his face.

"It's nothing. We ought to be getting back," he stood, unsure if he should wait for Silver to reattach his boot, or leave him to it on his own.

"Will you be needing to speak to me in the privacy of your cabin this evening?" Silver squinted up at Flint, almost managing to keep his lips from quirking up into a whisper of his former grins.

"If you're sure you won't be bothered by what the crew might think," Flint replied, allowing himself a small smile in return.

“Fuck those men, what they think.” Silver said with some of his old cheek, and Flint had to turn and walk away so that Silver would not see him laughing.

 

 . .

 

When Silver had been very young, he'd had a mother. 

He never remembered any father, which was probably just as well; his mother swore in a language that was not English when she spoke about Silver's father. 

What Silver remembered about his mother came in snatches and glimpses now that he was grown, and he never could tell just when a flash of memory might surface. As he sat watching the men from his place on the quarterdeck, Silver was inexplicably hit with an image of his mother scrubbing the floor of their dirty home. She used to sing, in Portuguese (he knew it had to be Portuguese, because it was  _like_ Spanish, but also not) and glance over at him every so often with a fond smile. 

Silver could remember, also, the way she smelled; musky and warm, the scent enveloping him when she would take him in her soft arms. Her hair was dark and curled like his, her skin olive and gold even in England's perpetual sunlessness. Her eyes were large and dark, like two pools of ink. He could not remember what it was she did to earn enough coin to keep them from the streets, but Silver wasn't sure he wanted to know, and was grateful that he didn't.

When she died of a bad fever, he was nearly six, and with no other living soul to take him in, he was sent to the orphanage. 

She'd loved him, which was quite possibly the worst thing about it. Never knowing love, Silver supposed, was likely preferable to knowing it once and then having it taken away from you. He wondered if Flint felt the same, knowing even what little he knew about the man's past. 

Feeling maudlin, Silver kicked himself for letting his mind run away with him. It was pointless to dwell on what had happened so long ago, what couldn't be changed. Even though he remembered bits and pieces of the language of his mother, Silver had never professed to be anything other than a lowborn Englishman. He had been, after all, such a young child; but still, he had learned very early that it was better to go along with things. To make things as easy and painless for himself as possible. 

What the hell was he doing now, here? He'd forsaken that route somewhere between stealing and burning that page and losing his leg to a madman with an axe. 

There was an overwhelming urge rising in him to avoid Flint for awhile, but Silver knew that in the end, he wouldn't. Now that he had whatever it was that he had, it was difficult to imagine forsaking it so quickly. 

 

When it came time for him to knock on Flint's cabin door, he thought fleetingly of his mother. Perhaps the next tiny grain of memory he would recall would be her name. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to figure out how to end this, and I'm really tempted to write something further in the future, perhaps even Treasure Island related. 
> 
> You'll notice that I've left out all the stuff with the Maroons - I think it's a badass storyline, but it doesn't suit my purposes for this unfortunately, and I couldn't figure out a way to work it in the way it was in the show. Sorry :(
> 
> Hopefully you're all still enjoying this little piece of trash :) 
> 
> Let me know how you're liking it! Thoughts, feelings, rants, etc. haha
> 
> <3


	5. Chapter 5

 

Behind closed doors, Flint found he had to fight to keep his hands off of Silver for long; it seemed as thought his body was rebelling against years of self-imposed celibacy.

There was something about a willing partner, especially one as clever and constantly surprising, that made Flint’s newly reawakened desires difficult to ignore. Whenever he was able to get his hands on Silver, or to press their bodies together in the privacy of the humid cabin, the heady rush of skin on skin was intoxicating.

The first time he got on his knees and took Silver’s cock into his mouth, Flint had had to close his eyes because he’d forgotten how much he loved this. He had missed it. The weight and feel of Silver in his mouth, the taste of him; it made Flint forget himself for a short while.

Silver had been a wreck; muttering and cursing, hands seeking out Flint’s head as if to tug on his hair, then giving a strangled cry of frustration when they found only short-cropped scalp. For the first time since he’d cut off all his hair, Flint found himself wishing he hadn’t; he wanted to feel Silver’s fingers threading through it, yanking just enough to sting.

  
Several days into the journey back to Nassau, as he was idly going over maps and charts, Flint found his thoughts straying to the past, to Thomas.

In their relationship, it was almost always Thomas who worked him open, who pushed inside him with steady hips. James McGraw had belonged to Thomas in every way one could belong to someone, and since then, Flint had never let another man have him.

But as he sifted through those memories, still bright as if they’d happened yesterday, Flint felt a deep ache inside himself. Letting Silver take him was out of the question, obviously. They were on more solid ground than ever before, true—but there was something abstract and powerful that might shift the balance were Flint to allow their positions to reverse.

But his mind wandered, and he couldn’t push back the images that flooded in. He couldn’t help wondering how might Silver be different as a lover were their places in sex changed. Would Silver be rough? Would he be tender? Flint didn’t think he could bear tenderness; he had only just begun to come to grips with the fact that he wanted to give Silver comfort, and he feared being shown too light a touch or being whispered sweet words to might undo him completely.

That thought irritated Flint, made him angry. He muttered a curse aloud to the empty room before returning to his charts.

. . 

Silver woke in his own hammock, damp with sweat, jolted from sleep by the phantom pains of his leg.

It was crippling - for lack of a better word - the stabbing, throbbing hurt that coursed through the lower portion of a leg he no longer possessed. Mr. Howell had said this would likely happen, that it was a common affliction experienced by those who lost limbs, but Silver had not been prepared for the reality of it.

These pains were part of the reason he chose to creep back to his hammock after the time spent with Flint. He couldn’t let Flint see him like this.

For all that the captain professed not to see Silver any differently because of his leg, Silver knew that for Flint to see him choking back silent sobs from the raw ache would be a different thing altogether.

It was, in a way, like wearing a ball and chain at all times. Because of his awkward, heavy gate due to the peg, Silver was no longer capable of the freeform sort of life he had always led. He was bound now to the crew of the Walrus, as bound to them as they were to him.

Digging his fingers into the end of his stump, Silver winced, hissing at the new pain. It helped to ground him, though, to push through the haze of the phantom limb with a clear, sharp stab. Tears stung the corners of his eyes, and he tried to keep his breath as steady as he could.

The future was so uncertain, and Silver found that his thoughts were murky and formless. They might be slaughtered the second they stepped foot on New Providence. They might be transported back to England or the Americas to be tried and publicly executed as pirates. Their bodies would hang over the waterways in chains to rot and be scavenged by birds, to serve as a reminder to all those who would follow in their way of life.

Silver had no doubts that England wanted Flint dead, and by extension, Silver dead as well.

There was little he could do but worry and wonder and speculate, things that had never done him any good, things that had no place in his mind.

From the moment he’d first laid eyes on Flint, Silver’s life had gotten increasingly complicated; a series of twists and drops and hidden, ever-changing tunnels and ladders that he could not seem to find an escape from.

They’d become tangled up in one another, Silver realized with a start. They’d already been in hopeless knots long before they’d ended up in bed together.

For two men so fiercely independent, it was the slightest bit ironic, the situation they found themselves in now. Neither of them wanted to _need_ anyone, and somehow they’d ended up with each man’s fate tied to the other’s.

 

Fate, it seemed, had a sense of humor.

 

. .

 

The last night before they reached Nassau, Flint took Silver over his desk like he’d so often imagined.

It seemed a long time ago, when Flint looked back at the fantasies he’d had about Silver all those months ago. They were pale, joyless things when compared with the reality. Silver was utterly responsive, willing to give as good as he got and then some.

Flint always preferred to take his time, slicking his fingers and pressing them inside of Silver one at a time, twisting and brushing against that place that made the other man hiss and arch his back. This time was no different. Flint had it in his mind this night to take Silver apart piece by piece, and he’d be damned if he didn’t succeed.

When at last he was slicking up his aching cock, lining up and pushing slowly in, Flint let his eyes close at the tight heat surrounding him. He groaned, bottoming out.

The muscles in Silver’s back flexed and shifted under the taut golden skin, a thin sheen of sweat making him glisten in the dingy lamplight.

Flint fought with - and then gave in to - the urge to trail his callused fingertips along the jut of one of Silver’s shoulder blades, down his spine.

Silver gasped at the contact, just a small catch of sound in his throat, but it was as desperate as if he’d wailed.

Flint’s thrusting became less controlled, and when Silver’s body clenched tight around him as he came, it wrung Flint’s pleasure from him in turn.

When they separated to clean themselves, breathing heavily, Flint realized that he felt awkward.

It was the ghost of James McGraw, haunting him even now. Where Flint was unbothered by anything or anyone, McGraw had constantly second-guessed himself. Flint didn’t like this sudden unsureness, standing there with his shirt hanging unbuttoned from his shoulders, his belt still undone. He felt exposed.

Silver muttered something to himself, and Flint’s ear perked at the sound of the unmistakable language.

“You speak Portuguese?” Flint asked, impressed.

He did not expect the other man to duck his head and look away.

“My mother was Portuguese.” Silver replied, doing his trousers back up. “Less impressive when it’s your birth language, isn’t it?”

Flint sat down on the edge of the desk and studied Silver’s expression, his posture. He looked like he wanted to disappear inside himself, a feeling Flint knew all too well.

“What happened to her?” he asked, not caring to put the question more kindly.

He and Silver had crossed a lot of water - so to speak - to reach this point; tact was not strictly necessary in all things that passed between them.

Silver’s eyes flickered up to meet Flint’s, the emotion just barely shuttered.

“What happens to anyone who is good and loving in this world, I suppose,” he replied bitterly. “She died when I was small. I can’t even remember her name.”

The last sentence was nearly a whisper, aching and honest. The open wound of it startled Flint.

“That’s not your fault,” he found himself saying “you were very young, so you knew her only as mother. Having even a small trove of memories of a mother who loved you is a precious thing.”

Here, Flint could not help thinking of the mother had had never known. He’d felt her absence growing up, but it was hard to miss something you’d never had to begin with.

Silver made a noise of frustration.

“Stop being so—so _gentle_ with me!” he blurted, color up in his cheeks and flushing over his still-exposed chest. “It’s confusing,” he added, more levelly, as though his own small burst of emotion had embarrassed him.

Flint knew perfectly well why it confounded Silver so much when he showed care; even so, it struck a nerve to have it pointed out to him.

“If you want to be treated like shit by the person you’re fucking, I’m sure there are plenty willing to play that part back in Nassau. You won’t get that from me,” he said roughly, suddenly annoyed with everything.

“Do you always have to make everything so bloody dramatic?” Silver huffed, picking up his crutch where it leant against the wall, and turning on his heel.

Just as he was reaching for the door, though, it opened to reveal a very wild-eyed, slightly breathless Billy.

“Captain, you’re needed,” he said, and then as if he’d only just noticed Silver, added “and you. It would seem we have a stowaway in our midst.”

Flint squinted at his bosun.

“A _what?_ ” he half-growled.

Silver’s eyes had gone very round, and his posture had changed completely. In the time they spent alone together, Flint had seen some of Silver’s old self start to come out again; his mannerisms and the way he carried himself. Now, though, that rigidity and wariness he had developed were amplified.

Billy looked ready to start throwing things.

“As I said, sir, a stowaway. Must’ve come aboard when we were on one of those islands. We found him trying to sneak to the lower deck.”

Flint felt a stabbing headache beginning just between his eyes.

“Did you find out his name?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“Aye, he’s English. Says his name’s Gunn. Ben Gunn.”

Flint looked at Silver, who gave the most imperceptible of nods, then turned his attention back to Billy.

“I’ll be there quickly, but I want you to see if you can get anymore information. The last thing we need is a fucking spy aboard.”

Billy nodded, then headed back in the direction from whence he’d come.

“Look, what I said before,” Silver said, the words slightly rushed “I don’t want things to—I still—oh, bugger it,” he rolled his eyes exasperatedly, then crossed the short distance between them to take Flint’s face firmly in his hands and kiss him.

The kiss was rough and insistent, and Flint thought he knew what Silver had been trying to say. He appreciated that even someone as verbally gifted as Silver could still, sometimes, be vexed by words.

When the kiss ended, Silver was looking at Flint expectantly.

“Alright?” he asked.

Flint let the tiny twitch of smile pulling at the corner of his mouth be his answer.

“Why, you’re practically adorable, John,” he said with a smirk before heading out the door.

The indignant sputtering from Silver was satisfying even without being able to see the facial expressions that accompanied it, and Flint allowed himself to grin imagining them.

Flint pushed that part of him aside, though, as he ran through all the many reasons someone might hide on his ship. What’s more, what might this Gunn person have been doing on whichever of those two islands he’d been on?

He supposed he would just have to ask the man himself.

Flint closed his eyes for several seconds, and when he opened them, he was his normal self; sharp edges and no chinks in his armor.

He could not afford the weakness that Silver could become.

 

He knew it, but he chose to ignore its potential, for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooooooops 
> 
> I knew I wouldn't be able to finish this in 5 chapters... i'm a failure. 
> 
> Oh well, that just means more story! <3 
> 
> Also, I've begun a total monster of a fic about these two and it would mean the world to me if even one person who likes this fic went and checked that one out ^_^


End file.
